The Winner
by Heath07
Summary: Slash-ish Richard POV. "His things are untouched and there is a coldness that settles down deep in the pit of his stomach."


Title: The Winner

Author: Heath07

Rating: PG-13 Slash-ish

Summary: [Murder by Numbers] Richard POV. "His things are untouched and there is a coldness that settles down deep in the pit of his stomach."

Disclaimer: I own nothing...

Distribution: Please ask first.

__________

He picks himself off of the jagged rocks, his blood and tears and skin scraped off and his image of Justin jaded. 

He doesn't know how long he's been here but he knows it's been more than a day, less than a week. A while ago he heard voices calling his name, voices that were loud and angry and he made himself small until they went away and he hasn't heard anything but the water, the occasional slap of fish and the call of seagulls since. He straightens his back, feeling all the muscles pull and groan.

He struggles his way up the cliffs, his knuckles bleeding and his arm, weakened and swollen from the fall, bangs against his side making him aware that his ribs are bruised. 

The streets are quiet and the sky is black by the time he hefts himself over the guardrail and down the rural streets, gaining on the more populated areas with each step.

At his house he notices his car is gone, the garage door has been painted; he thinks this odd, but doesn't dwell on it. He knows not to use the front door, so he sails to the back of the house and up the trellis he goes. He slips into the room, the mirror on the wall strangely affected by the moon. 

He pauses, watches and waits. 

Nothing. 

There is nothingness in this room and in this house as there always has been, nothing has changed and yet he knows everything is different. 

His things are untouched and there is a coldness that settles down deep in the pit of his stomach. A coldness that fills his blood and cells and makes him feel dizzy. His hands shake as he changes his clothes and cleans the blood from his wounds. All at once, he feels this is not where he's supposed to be. 

He grabs a pack of cigarettes from his top drawer and crawls out the window, feeling like a silly child the whole time. On solid ground, he takes out a cigarette and lights it, taking a deep drag that fills his lungs with salvageable power. 

The walk across town is slow going, the streetlights feel like flashbulbs against his eyes and his arm is aching. He thinks it must be broken and stuffs his hand inside his jacket to keep it warm, his fingers tingle every once in a while reminding him of the pain. 

By the time he's standing before the tree that will lead him to Justin's window, he's had half a dozen cigarettes and his hand won't stop shaking.

The climb is tedious and painful, but he makes it to the window, finding it open. With his usual grace and finesse, he slips inside and his breath catches at the site of Justin sprawled in bed, restless and naked. 

Richard watches for a long time, still. He lights a cigarette and rolls it between his thumb and finger, lazily taking drags. His pants feel tight and for the first time--maybe the only time--in his whole life, Richard feels uncomfortable in his own skin. He thinks it must be the blow to his head and the gash that has been steadily bleeding since he picked himself off of the rocks. 

Justin looks so different without his clothes on. His chest is wider than he had remembered and his arms are much more gangly and at odds with the rest of him that is noticeable when he stands but they stick out starkly now. 

Richard butts out the cigarette on his shoe and immediately places another in his mouth, lets it dangle. He situates himself on the side of the bed, his hand stretching out and touching Justin's hair that is just too long to be fashionable and too short to be sexy. It's not rock star hair if that's what he was going for and Richard will tell him that when he wakes...but for now, he lets it slip through his fingers and marvels at the softness; it's like baby hair, really. A lot of Justin is innocent like a baby, Richard thinks, and the parts that aren't, are dangerously clever and nowhere close to innocent. 

There's a paper on the bedside table, Richard picks it up and reads, learning Justin is under house arrest remanded to his Mother's custody while a trial is underway to decide his freedom and Richard laughs. There is no worse punishment than that. 

In his sleep, Richard whispers to him all the things he could never say in the light. And Justin twists and turns with anxiety from the trial and it is Richard's voice that calms him. He stays the whole night until the sun starts to rise and the air begins to heat and then he carefully makes his way down the trunk of the massive oak and whistles his way out of sight.

--

His arm has healed the next time he visits. 

Richard likes to watch the demons that catch Justin in his sleep, that cling to his closed eyes and cause sweat to roll down his back. He's heard his name uttered, quietly, as he sits on the window sill watching. 

The bracelet around Justin's ankle looks tight and he shifts, his toes a little blue from lack of circulation. The cops must have wanted to make sure that he wouldn't run or have the opportunity to disable the device, but they don't know Justin like Richard knows Justin, because if they did, they would know that Justin will walk into his fate with a chip of honour on his shoulder and pride in his tears. Prison is going to be cruel to him; crueler than Richard ever was to the boy. 

Justin sleeps through his visits and Richard's touches go unnoticed. Sometimes he kisses Justin in his sleep where he knows he'll remember it the most. 

He won't come back anymore, there is something pulling him in another direction and he knows something is happening that he can't stop. The first time he looked in the mirror, he found it odd that there was nothing there but the black sky and the moon and then the answer came to him... 

All their arguments about freedom and gratuitous random crimes and all that philosophical mumbo-jumbo mean shit...

Nothing is more freeing than...

The most individual act is...

Richard has learned that death is the sweetest freedom. 

______

end.


End file.
